A Change Is As Good As A Rest
by charleygirl
Summary: When you've been doing the same thing every night for a quarter of a century, something has to give...


**Author's Note:**

A little piece of complete silliness, which has been going round in my head since the 25th anniversary.

Dedicated to John Owen-Jones and Killian Donnelly, whose antics on Youtube over the last few weeks partly inspired it. :)

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><p><strong>A CHANGE IS AS GOOD AS A REST<strong>

"You try my patience. Make your choice!"

The Phantom let the words hang ominously in the air for a moment, waiting for the expected response. However, instead of a heartfelt murmuring of compassion, followed by a kiss, silence greeted him. In fact, should one have been so inclined, it was possible to hear metaphorical crickets chirping (metaphorical of course because no self-respecting cricket would choose to set up home in the cellars of the Paris Opera). He glanced at Raoul, but the vicomte was largely occupied with trying not to be strangled by the Punjab lasso. He was standing so far on his toes that Madame Giry could have recruited him into the corps de ballet.

"Christine?" Erik turned, gaze searching the lair for the heavenly vision in white which should have been tearfully showing him that he was not alone in the world, but there was no sign of her. "Christine, where _are_ you?"

There was no answer. Christine Daae, soprano, diva of the Opera Populaire and his angel of music (just as he was hers – it was so confusing sometimes), was conspicuous by her absence. Erik looked at Raoul again, but the young man only shrugged as best he could with his head in a noose. Swearing under his breath, the Phantom stalked over to the portcullis and raised his voice, shouting at a volume which made Raoul jump and the candelabra wobble,

"_Christine_!"

"What on earth is the matter?" asked a delightfully musical voice behind him. He spun round to see Christine standing there, wearing an evening gown instead of the wedding dress he had carefully chosen for her, checking the contents of her purse. She had pinned up her hair and was wearing make-up (not stage make-up, either, but the meticulously-applied war paint worn by women on a night out).

Erik stared at her in astonishment. She should have been dishevelled and desperate, begging him to let her fiancé go, not looking as though she was heading for a party! "Where have you been?" he demanded. "It's your line, and what is _that_?" He gestured to her dress, which was sparkly and flouncy and not all at what he would have chosen. "Where is your wedding gown, your veil? They cost me a fortune!"

"I sent them to the cleaners – you wouldn't believe the muck that skirt picks up down here. Meg and I thought we would go out dancing with some of the ballet rats," Christine explained, as though to leave them hanging (literally in Raoul's case) to go out with the girls was the most natural thing in the world. "After all, we _have_ done this every night for the last twenty-five years. We fancied a bit of a change."

"And when were you going to tell us?" Erik enquired, raising an eyebrow. "Or were you expecting us not to notice you were gone and carry on regardless?"

"Well, you do have that dummy..." He gave her a look that said 'I may be mad, but I'm not desperate', so she added hastily, "I thought the two of you might enjoy a night off. Maybe you could try a little male bonding, get to know each other."

The expressions on her two suitors' faces told her their opinion of that suggestion. Raoul made a few choked noises which sounded like 'Over my dead body', a situation Erik reasoned could be swiftly arranged if necessary.

"Well," said Christine, "I'm sure you'll find some way to amuse yourselves. Just behave, please."

"Christine, the girls are ready to go." Meg appeared from behind the organ, leading Erik to wonder whether there was an entrance to his lair that he didn't know about for the little ballerina certainly did not appear to have traversed the dank and dusty tunnels or swum across the lake; in fact, she looked as primped and preened as Christine. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously.

"If I didn't know better, I'd think you were going out on the pull," he said. Meg giggled, and Christine just smiled, dancing over to give first him and then Raoul a kiss on the cheek.

"Don't wait up," she told them. "And try not to kill each other while I'm gone."

"That's easier said than done," Erik grumbled when the two girls had left. Snatching up a candle, he used it to burn through the cord holding the noose around Raoul's neck. His support suddenly gone, the vicomte lost his balance and tumbled inelegantly to the floor. Erik shook his head, deciding that maybe the pretty little rich boy wasn't ready for Madame Giry's critical eye just yet; he'd seen baby elephants with more grace. "I've lost count of how many lassos you've made me ruin over the years," he said. "What are we going to do now?"

Raoul rubbed at his throat. "Pub?" he suggested.

With a sigh, Erik picked up his mask from the seat of his fanciful throne-like chair. A drink with his enemy, or an evening spent sitting alone, brooding and falling into self-pity? Oh, the agony of choice. On the one hand, he'd have to endure Raoul's less-than sparkling conversation; on the other, the mob might still come knocking on his door, despite Christine's absence. Maybe an evening out would be the lesser of the two evils. "Pub," he agreed. "And you're buying the first round."

"Me?" Raoul looked put out. "Why me?"

"You're the one with a title and a fortune. I live like a rat under a theatre. You think this place looks comfortable?"

"What about the twenty thousand francs a month you've been extorting from the managers?" asked the vicomte. "That should pay for a few bottles!"

"Mention extortion again and I _will_ Punjab you," Erik growled. "It was a perfectly adequate salary for services rendered. And anyway, Andre and Firmin refused to pay me, remember?"

"Point taken." Raoul got to his feet, brushing himself down. "I'll have to change when we get back upstairs," he said ruefully, pulling at his soaked and crumpled clothes. Beside Erik's brooding presence in cloak, hat and mask he looked rather like a scarecrow, something which amused the Phantom no end. "Is there anywhere in particular you'd like to go?"

"It may come as a complete surprise to you, but I rarely socialise," said Erik, ladling on the sarcasm. "I'm sure a man of the world like you can suggest somewhere far more readily than I. As long as it has a dark corner in which I can hide and it's not karaoke night, I don't mind."

"Right. The Webber Arms it is, then," Raoul said as they began heading for the one entrance to the lair which didn't involve crossing the lake and meeting anyone who might have decided to venture into the cellars. "They have a dart board. Have you ever played darts?" Erik grunted in the negative, so the vicomte tried again. "Pool? Bar skittles? How about Twister...?"

Thankfully, the Phantom's reply was lost as they vanished into the tunnels.


End file.
